They said that ever since that day, houses built around Caojiatun had switched from flat roofs to sloped ones—just in case. A local legend born from one man’s defiance.
Mu Dai stammered, “So… has Cao Tudun come back home?”
No. Definitely not. If he had, after eight long years away, it would’ve been bigger news than Qingshan’s wedding.
And sure enough, the village still buzzed with wedding preparations and festive cheer.
When she hung up, Mu Dai’s anxiety only deepened.
If the celebration was still ongoing, that meant the bride hadn’t been “rescued.” So where on earth was Cao Yanhua?
That night, rain poured down. The bar was quiet, just a few patrons scattered around. Mu Dai sat alone in the corner, scrolling through her phone even though she knew there’d be no new messages.
Yiwansan, in good spirits as usual, sauntered over with a tray and set down a latte, the foam art spelling out: “Down with arranged marriage, long live free love.”
Mu Dai scowled, took a sip, and accidentally sucked the word “freedom” right into her mouth, leaving a foam ring around her lips.
Yiwansan looked at her with exaggerated disgust. Some people, he thought, just weren’t built for discussing art, romance, or taste.
Mu Dai muttered, “What do you think’s happened to Fatty Cao?”
Right on cue, a flash of lightning tore across the sky, followed by rolling thunder.
Yiwansan said dramatically, “Maybe he’s been captured. Locked in Cao Jinhua’s basement, tortured for information, forced to swallow his pride and survive—don’t worry, boss lady, he’ll return a year later with a goofy grin, a baby in his arms, another on his back, and one more holding his hand—”
Mu Dai hurled a cushion at him.
The bar’s glass door swung open, rainwater dripping off an umbrella as someone stepped inside.
It was Luo Ren.
Yiwansan clicked his tongue. “Come rain or shine, huh?”
He wisely tucked the tray under his arm and retreated behind the bar.
Unlike Mu Dai, Yiwansan wasn’t too worried about Cao Yanhua. These things took time, after all—Cao was probably planning, preparing, waiting for the right moment. You couldn’t expect miracles overnight.
Luo Ren came over. Mu Dai shifted in her seat to make room. As usual, he didn’t sit across from her—he sat beside her, close enough that she could smell the damp chill clinging to him.
“If there’s still no word in the next day or two,” he said, “we might have to go there ourselves.”
Mu Dai nodded. It was true—whether they asked Wan Fenghuo or the police, nothing eased her mind like seeing it with her own eyes. And with the village so festive, calling the cops was pointless anyway.
They chatted about familiar things: business at Phoenix Tower, whether Old Zheng should add a few new dishes to the menu, Pingting’s recovery, the mysterious oracle token and its cryptic hints.
The Phoenix Luan token’s messages always appeared at random, and since the first “guiding vision,” no one had seen anything quite like it again. Luo Ren’s theory was that the point wasn’t for everyone to see—it was enough that someone did, and passed the message on.
So when would the next sign appear?
Mu Dai joked, “Should I start staring at pieces of wood like Fatty Cao does? Maybe if I stare long enough, I’ll hallucinate too.”
She widened her eyes, locked her gaze on the wall in front of her, and pretended to meditate.
The “art wall” was covered with scribbles and doodles left by drunken patrons. Once, a heartbroken guest had even written out The Song of Everlasting Regret from memory, word for word, crying the whole time. When he reached the final line—“This eternal sorrow has no end”—everyone in the bar had applauded.
Suddenly, Mu Dai froze like a statue in deep meditation. Luo Ren chuckled—then, as his eyes swept the wall, his body went rigid.
He stood abruptly, walked to the wall, and crouched down to look closely.
It was a painting of a leopard. The lines were stark red—minimalist, but powerful. Muscles coiled in motion, mid-leap, its head turned slightly, one eye missing, a single drop of red blood sliding from the empty socket.
Luo Ren’s hand tightened into a fist, veins rising across the back of it. His Adam’s apple bobbed faintly.
Mu Dai came up behind him. “What’s wrong?”
“Who drew this?” he asked quietly.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Probably one of the customers.”
No, Luo Ren thought. Definitely not a customer.
“When was it painted?”
“Can’t remember. A while ago, maybe.”
No way. It had to be recent—yesterday, or even today. If that drawing had been there before, he never would’ve missed it.
Mu Dai looked worried. “What’s going on?”
Luo Ren was silent for a long moment, then said softly, “It’s… a good painting.”
That night, before bed, Mu Dai kept thinking about Luo Ren’s strange reaction—and that leopard.
When she finally drifted off, she woke again in terror. Her back was cold, her breath ragged. For a moment, she couldn’t tell where she was. Everything was pitch-black, damp air pressing in from all sides.
As her breathing slowed, she realized she was in some kind of underground chamber—her position strange, like she was high up on one of the walls.
The air was thick with damp, mold, and despair.
Tiny grains of sand trickled down in front of her.
Then—suddenly—someone fell straight through from above, dropping past her eyes in a blur, landing below with a sickening thud.
Light flared. She looked down and saw a man sprawled in a pool of blood. She knew that outfit—knew the knife buried in his lower back.
Tears blurred her vision. Her voice broke as she called out, “Luo Ren?!”
She woke up crying.
The room was pitch dark. She fumbled for her phone—she’d barely slept an hour. Just a dream. Just a nightmare.
But it had felt so real that she was afraid to lie back down. Her cheeks were damp.
She swung her legs out of bed, searching for her slippers. Couldn’t find them. So she stepped barefoot onto the cold floor, the chill seeping up through her feet.
Walking to the window, she pushed it open.
Across the way, in the darkness, a light still glowed in Luo Ren’s room.
He was awake too.
Instinctively, Mu Dai pressed her palms together, touched her fingertips to her forehead, and whispered to herself:
It was only a dream. Just a dream.
Sam Williams On TYMIMA Chapter 152